
Glass 
Book 



>'*> 



u 



Xb? 



RELIGIO POETH, 



TRILOGY. 



RELIGIO POET^ 



h 



TEILOG Y" 



-. MI 



CHARD, 

PROFESSOR OP MODERN LANGUAGES. 



And he said unto me, Write, for these words are true 
and faithful. — Revelation. 

Ab Jove Alusarum primordia. — Cicero 



RICHMOND: 

MACFARLANE & FERGUSSON, PRINTERS. 

1860. 



Ax** 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year i860, by 

JOSEPH MICHARD, 
In the Clerk's Office for the Eastern District of Virginia, 



PEOEM 



— 0- 



l&avdroo Trarpbz oik ouvaypovs,, xoipave r.&vTtov, 

ai&epuov p.so£cov, zlvojicov, ydovttov 
ucol tew, zw TYjvde fiiftXov ypdipavrc Mapivcp, 



PEOEM. 



i. 

Oh ! whether borne 

On eagle's pinions, or the clouds that fly 

Across the jewelled arch of morn, 

Oh ! let me soar on high ; 

For I have dreamed and languished long, 

Far from those unknown realms of song 

That to other worlds belong. 

Enough in the profoundest night 

Have I pursued each wandering light. — 

Let me arise and wend my way 

To the peaceful isles of eternal day : 

Not faintly there the whispered voice, 

Half heard, of Nature may rejoice 

Hearts that are burdened w 7 ith withering care, 

Spirits that pine in the cheerless air; 

But the full tones, perhaps, shall roll 

Aloud the language of the soul. 



PROEM. 



II. 



Oh ! that some gondola with wings 
Of silk, purpled and gilded by the morning sun, 
With the same golden bars ha flings 
Far down the humid wood aisles, where they run 
Molten, in serpentine streams of topaz light — 
.Were mine, formed to ascend to heaven's crystalline 

springs, 
That with the alarmed flight 
Of the enamoured night, 

I might embark, on some long journey bound. 
Perhaps, then, other mysteries might sound 
In those far climes to my dull lyre, 
And that, in time, should I again return, 
My page, like that new page of heaven might burn, 
Blazing with words of quenchless fire. 



III. 



For might I hope, here, by that bond 
Which rivets things terrestrial, 
Confined and held a prisoner, 
To see what we prefigure yond, 
Where Fancy's dream, transporting her 
She thinks to hear some sacred call 
From far, and hastening to respond 



PROEM. 9 



Eludes the adamantine wall, 

And waving her imperial wand, 

Opens the gates that shut us in, — 

Truly the unadorned relation 

Of that exalted contemplation 

Grace of all gentle hearts m ght win : 

But barriers that intervene 

Thwart and repel the vain endeavour, 

Till, once free, we have gained forever 

The eternal, the unseen. 



IV. 



Lord uncreated ! Lord undying ! 

In their golden orbits flying 

In cycles and concentric arches, 

Round the throne, in order hieing, 

On their everlasting marches, 

Dazzling suns and stars are sent, 

By the Word Omnipotent. 

Ever hastening on their round, 

Through the immense and dark profound, 

Each in its way thy glory sings, 

While with their hymn all heaven rings. 

Holy ! holy ! thou alone 

Whose grandeur fills the eternal throne, 



10 PROEM. 



But whose domain infinity, 
Whose being is eternity, 
Who wast and art and shalt remain 
Lord of the unnumbered starry train. 



y. 

Each wave of the pure azure ocean, 
Vibrating with divine emotion, 
Sends forth its note of adoration 
And bounds aloft with exultation \ 
While all the echoes of the mountains, 
And all the rills from limpid fountains, 
Their separate voices gladly raise, 
And ever join to sound thy praise, 
Re-echo earth, re-echo sea ! 
Mountains return the melody ! 
Heaven waft the music through the sphe 
On mortal and immortal ears 
Breathe the sublime and holy strain. 
And when it shall subside again, 
Pausing in rapt contemplation, 
Each heavenly and earthly nation 
Shall still the solemn sound retain 
And think to hear it once again. 



ReLIGIO Po£T^& 



Poca favilla gran fiamma seconda : 
Forse diretro a me con miglior voci 
Si preghera. 



PART I. 



RELTGIO POET^E. 

thou, within whose soul the wondrous splendour 
That glows throughout this boundless universe. 

Kindles a spirit ethereal and tender, 

With fond desire these glories to rehearse : 

To whom from other worlds, on snowy pinions 
Come messengers of undiscovered things, 

That lie within the infinite dominions, 
Brighter than all our vain imaginings : 

And thou who lovest, though less divinely gifted, 
To earth's great bards thy vigils to devote, 

And in the empyrean of stars uplifted 

Wouldst join those choirs, swans of Maeonian note 

Thou to whose sense the hidden life that quivers 
Among the sunless leaves in lone woods stirred. 

In silver lakes, or silent-flowing rivers, 

Is oft revealed by voices whispering heard : 



i4 RELlGIO FOET^. 



The life seen most in wastes all solitary, 

The solemn face of night, the ocean wide;— a 

That peoples earth with viewless forms and airy. 
That light as gossamer or moonbeam glide. 



Haunting green hills and flower-besprinkled valleys, 
Or twilight groves loved by the nightingale ; 

Or where the south wind with the violet dallies j 
Or some dark pool reflects its lilies pale ; 



Or caverned cell where glassy fountains tinkle, 
Or ruined towers, or where some mountain vast 

Lifts its grey front that tempests seam and wrinkle, 
Above cliffs, rocks and crags profusely massed.— 

Who, conscious of this life, and listening nightly 
To the low music uttered by the spheres, 

Wouldst, rapt by their sweet chime, interpret rightly 
What thine absorbed soul attentive hears ; 



And while the astral retinues emblazon 

That broad cerulean vault through which they roll 
In concord with the perfect diapason, 

Wouldst trace their mystic dance upon thy scroll : 



RELIGIO POET.E. 15 



Who, taught by nature's harmony and beauty, 
Wouldst tell of her deep lore some broken part, 

Deeming the impulse of the hour a duty, 
Assume not thoughtless the poetic art. 



And think not some light fancy quickly rendered 
In easy flowing verses tipped with rhyme, 

Make all the poet, or idle dreams engendered 
Of gay romance at eve in summer time. 



Beware most of thyself, and hope not vainly 
That all the perilous ministry may dare, 

Nor in the temple enter thou profanely, 
Doomed to undying glory or despair. 



Pass not intrusively the sacred portal 

Where of two fates the darker thou mayest find; 
Where the air being breathed doth make immortal, 

Or else perchance dethrone the aspiring mind. 



Remember this : first scan thy heart sincerely 
To know if thou be constant, true and pure ) 

Thy virtues fail not thou to test austerely, 
Make trial stern of what they may endure, 



16 RELIGIO POETiE. 



Mortality hath no more arduous station 
Than is the poet's worthy of the name ; 

His soul must have no common elevation, 
Superior even to the love of fame. 



For man was once a being all perfection, 
Lord of the earth and chief preeminent : 

Truth beaming in his eye's serene reflection 
Proclaimed him holy, pure and innocent. 



Wisdom revealing through the vivid medium 

Of intuition her eternal laws, 
He knew not our rough toil, delay or tedium, 

As he traced all things to their great first cause. 



Companion'd then by angels passed the hours 
In converse high, or warbled hymn, where vines 

Encanopied with amaranthine flowers 

The groves whose verdurous wealth knew no declines. 



But fallen and from his high estate degraded, 
What is he now ? base, barbarous and blind. 

Age after age the rays have slowly faded 
That once spontaneous beamed in his mind, 



RELIGIO POKT^E. 17 



For him thus fallen a Redeemer dying, 
love unutterable ! on the cross, 

Conquering death, the bond of sin untying 
Repaired once more his lamentable loss. 



Still hath he sunk so low, so dense his blindness, 
That even angels might of hope despair ; 

Yet some with pity touched, and human kindness, 
Have made of his sad case their only care. 

As some great brotherhood, some noble order, 
Who from all guile by fiery ordeal purged, 

Claiming no praise, looking to no re warder, 
By love alone for men their fellows urged : 



To civilize ; to spread the sway^ of science ; 

Establish law's just empire in their hearts ] 
To mould them to its rule to yield compliance, 

Tempering their nature's harshness with the arts 



To soothe when other hope is interdicted ) 

Disease in its fell onset to resist ; 
To carry consolation to the afflicted ; 

Throughout the earth to bear the Evangelist, 



18 RELIGIO POET^E. 



Of these not least hath heaven sent the poet : 
Each hath his gift entrusted from on high : 

Whate'er his talent let God's chosen bestow it 
Upon his race, nor from his duty fly. 



Therefore forget not this j thy part once taken, 
Let nothing drive thee to desert thy plan : 

Howe'er abandoned, vile and God-forsaken 
The age may seem, never despair of man. 



If then thou wilt persist in this endeavour, 
Up the steep mount to force thy rugged way, 

Bid all low thoughts farewell, farewell forever, 
Then humbly bow thee before God and pray. 



Doubt not of this ; thy feeble understanding 
Shall find no theme to cure its every fault, 

No thought discern, which ever more expanding, 
Shall all thy nature to such height exalt, — 

As that of the Omnipotent, the Eternal, 
The Light-Environed, at whose fiat the sun, 

Flaming, illumed the obscurity nocturnal, 

That palled the deeps ere time had yet begun. 



KELIGIO POETiE. 1 9 



Wisdom and Love and Power in union dwelling 
Infinite all, shall all thy soul exhaust; 

Intent upon that thought all thought excelling, 
Muse till she be in her own rapture lost. 



Thou shalt discover in this contemplation 
A power in thy mind before unknown \ 

For the true source of all high inspiration 
Flows from the foot of God's eternal throne. 

Then with the sacred harp go forth inspiring 
The ideal pure of truth, beauty or right: 

Or with shrill trump heroic spirits firing ; 
Or if the oaten pipe thy muse delight. 



Forth, then, to win thy laurel : go to thy calling; 

From evil, good, thy magic must evoke : 
Draw lustre even from themes the most appallin 

Woes, famine dire, or death's relentless stroke. 



bJ 



Death, thou art horrible ! onr nature quailing 
At sight of thy dread face and ghastly prey, 

From earth goes up the sound of endless wailing 
As at thy touch our loved ones pass away. 



20 RELIGIO POETJE. 



Thou art most horrible : the wan and frigid 

Frame, and the sightless eye-ball's filmy glare, 
The clammy brow, the limbs distort and rigid. 

*/ O 7 

The swift decay which nothing shall repair, — 

The unaccustomed tinges that ensallow 

With hues from which we, shuddering, turn aside 
All that a thousand throbbing memories hallow, 

Dishonouring the idols of our pride, — 



All that the rending of the mind from matter 

Marks to our ken irrevocably past — 
These things crush in an instant, break and shatter 

Our souls and with strange woe our natures blast. 



But even in that hour of deep dejection 

That bows the mightiest grovelling to the dust — 

The angel Faith then comes, the resurrection 
Whispering low — we rise, rejoice and trust. 

For we believe we do not wholly perish ; 

Nor that our being is all bounded here. 
They are not lost, those dear ones whom we cherish, 

But gone before us to a happier sphere. 



BELIGIO POET-E. 21 



The ashes and the dust which love would single 
From out the mass, sink in their native clay; 

But the pure spirit with these no more shall mingle, 
Borne to a home where there is no decay, 



0, not there where the lonely cypress pining, 
Distils funereal tears upon the sod ; 

Not in the tomb are they, but brightly shining, 
Beatified in presence of their God. 



We mourn not in the extremest of our anguish, 

Though sharp our aching hearts may feel their pain, 

The fate of those who now have ceased to languish, 
Because we know the dead shall live again. 



We know that, like the herald orbs of morning, 
While night yet broods in silence and in gloom, 

They shall arise, triumphal crowns adorning 
Their brows, fresh mantling in eternal bloom ; 



Their feet are beautiful upon the mountains 
Of the fair country where they now abide; 

Their thirst is quenched at the perennial fountains, 
Forever sparkling with life's crystal tide. 



22 RELIGIO POET^, 



There is a city, where their habitations, 

Each towering high, loftier than regal dome, 

Await them — built on durable foundations — 
From their long pilgrimage, returning home. 



As in that strange and airy mirror beaming, 
Seen half way to the zenith through the gyres 

Of the careering clouds and vapours streaming, 
Which oft the wave-tost mariner admires, 



We seem to see the monumental glory 
Of some great empire's capital displayed ) 

Or as, full oft, in vision, dream or story, 
The gorgeous opulence of Ind arrayed ; 



On porphyry columns, arches wide exalted, 
Spires that ascend in wreathe-convolved whirl 

O'er carved emerald, or ruby vaulted ; 
Or tissued frieze with tracery of pearl ; 



Translucent pinnacles of arrowy lightness, 
Quadruple galleries ranged in order long ; 

And lo! attired in robes of sair.tly whiteness, 
Moving through all, behold a countless throng. 



RELIGIO POETJSL 23 



Spirits that were consumed in the endeavour 
Here, in this court and vestibule of time, 

To love, to know, to be, even as, forever, 

The holiest are, know, love in heaven sublime, 



The little children, garlanded with flowers, 
Nurtured with love passing all human love, 

Stand oft, expectant, on the outer towers, 
The first to greet their mothers there above. 



There many an orphan, by misfortune driven 

Through life's drear waste, oppressed, unsheltered; 
lone; — 

(The friendless by the world are unforgiven) — 
Meets the parental face, before unknown. 

And many whom the sire awhile may sever," 
Loving even in the trials that he sends, 

Shall there find, re-united, and forever, 

The dear companionship of long-lost friends, 

And far along those sapphirine savannahs, 
Anthems and paeans they, the happy, sing, 

And raise loud hallelujahs and hosannas, 
With Gloria in ExceJsis to their king. 



RELIGIO POET^Es 



Lo! to the silent grave we all are tending; 

Then, poet, let it sometimes "be thy care, 
Those who oft seek thy page, their thought unbending, 

For this their destined portion to prepare. 



A voice to send to wanderers, benighted 

In some dark, pathless forest, that may guide — 

That may restore life's hope, all withered, blighted) 
When the opaque despair looms fa*r and wide. 

For oft, a word, a strain of gentle numbers, 
Falling by chance upon the torpid ear 

Of wretches whom their load of woe encumbers* 
Cancels their guilt with one repentant tear. 

Beware of satire : the free poet, harping 
To his high chant in rapt ecstatic mood, 

Was not created for censorious carping, 
Or bitter irony, or sarcasm rude. 



RELIGIO POETvE. 25 



Thus have I ta'en my flight above the summit 
Of high Olympus, or the top of Ide, 

And lower deeps have fathomed with my plummet 
Than wreck of argosied gold beneath the tide. 



Of these poor lines, if the continuous burden 
Hath moved in thee a thought of holiness, 

Then he who wrought them hath obtained his guerdon, 
Doing no more, that he hath not done less. 



SONNETS 



Stofia, zddoz </"jyjjZi "Atdr^, Motp\ a%&o$, dvdyx7], 
xal dea/uo^ xparspoc, xal x6Xaat$ ftaadvcov. 

dkK orav igsk&jj too acojuaroz, o>C drrb dscrficov 
too do.vdzou, (fe'jysi xpbz &ebv d&dvarov 



PART II 



SONNETS 



I. 



Thy guidance and thine aid this many a day, 
Through toilsome paths and thorny, and a gloom 
As of a midnight, which no stars illume, 
Hath led me, bright Urania, on my way. 

Shades terrible as death, hopeless as doom, 
Hung over me, yet felt I no dismay; 
No weariness upon my soul did weigh; 
Nor did repining thoughts my. heart consume. 

For thine august and high discourse sustained 
My spirit, and a harmony I heard 
Of music every where around, that stirred 

My life through all its fibres, and unchained 
The pulses of my soul to rapture fine : 
And now, behold, the light begins to shine- 



30 RELIGIO POETJE. 



II. 



What most of all my solace I esteemed, 
Was still the music that around me rolled 
In undulating symphonies, that seemed 
Struck from innumerable harps of gold. 

I was as one who all night long hath dreamed 
He heard, though not permitted to behold 
The glorious company of the redeemed 
In rythmic chant of concord manifold. 

But what with him is phantasy alone, — 
Delusions which the dawn will dissipate, 
Was to my soul a revelation sent, 

Of truth, though but as yet obscurely shown, 
Which day will soon perfect and consummate, 
W^hen that which is, shall be made evident. 



in. 



When at the point of death, the Athenian sage 
Related to the friends, around him standing, 
A dream he often had, which came commanding 
Ever the same through life, from youth to age : 



SONNEJ 31 



"0 Socrates/' tlio vision said, "engage 
Thy time and study in the cultivation 
Of music :" — and he thought that high vocation 
Was meant which made his earthly pilgrimage. 

Yet much he doubted, and with care he sought 
What the nocturnal voice might signify. 
Now nor sublime philosophy, nor aught 

He yet had found, seemed what it should imply. 
He drained the cup, and soon his hearing caught 
Strains of that music wafted from on high. 



IV. 



Yes, 'tis the Beautiful that all mankind 
In toil, in vigils long, in wild endeavour, 
In pleasure's path, to indolence resigned, 
Still seek for, watching, laboring on forever. 

For this, ambition's schemes are all combined, 
Which their fond votary from his fellows sever : 
The sage, the soldier still aspire to find 
On earth, that which to earth was granted never 

Wouldst thou, then, to the Beautiful attain ? 
Arise, on wings of Faith, and soar above 
The mists of life, and all its shadows vain, 



32 RKL1GI0 POKTA*. 



High in the starry realms of sacred Love, 

By the pure fountains springing round the throne, 
My soul, there must thou seek, and there alone. 



v. 



It hath been said, that all things which are seen 
Of those which are, show but the duplicate. 
Our habitation here, this orb terrene, 
Reflects the archetypal increate. 

And sometimes in our souls we contemplate, 
By virtue of intelligence serene, 
The lights of truth, which can still penetrate 
Our darkness through the clouds that intervene. 

As on some dungeon wall, of scenes without, 

The sunlight, through the grating fixed on high, 
Brief, unsubstantial paintings haply flings : 

The prisoner views them with a kindling eye. 
Thou, too, mayst oft discern, beyond a doubt, 
The glorious semblance of celestial things. 



SONNETS. 33 



VI. 



A morning mist among the blue hills lost, 
A blade of grass that withers on the ground, 
A subtly melting tracery of frost 
Upon the crystal pane in winter found : 

The echo of an echo, fleeting sound, 

The foam of ocean wave by wild winds tossed 
On rocks that overlook the surges round, 
By bark of mortal mould as yet uncrossed : 

A cloud that fades away even as we gaze, 
A drop of dew exhaled within an hour, 
A leaf snapped from the tree in autumn days, 

A broken reed, or a decaying flower — 

These, we say, life resembles; yet we haste 
That life so brief to dissipate and waste. 



VII. 



Fables and dreams my fancy doth combine, 
Which into verse I then elaborate, 
And thus adorned, to paper I consign 
The foolish dreams and fables I create. 



34 RETJGTO POET^E. 



My soul to grief or joy doth oft incline, 
As moved by what those stories simulate. 
But leaving art's deception and design, 
What more than such a tale is my own fate ? 

Alas! not that alone which thus I feign 

Is fable; but my hopes and fears, like those 
I sing or write, are idle all and vain. 

The course of life itself a wild dream flows. 
Oh ! when I wake at last, Creator, deign 
To grant that in the rest of truth I find repose. 



VIII. 



With sand, w T ith shadows, with revolving wheels, 
Things apt indeed, the lapse of time we mark : 
Atoms that fall, light yielding to the dark, 
And iron teeth, whose trace our brow reveals. 

Precursors of oblivion, that conceals 

All it engulfs, the shades enshroud the spark 
Of life's short flame, and as they form their arc, 
The wheels grind us to sand, that downward steals. 

In these a three-fold symbol of our doom 

Thus we discern : awful the shades that lower 
Tpon the mysteries beyond the ton.' 3 ; 



SONNETS. 35 



Daily the wheels of life are clogged with rust; 
And soon they cease to tell the passing hour, 
When we ourselves are nothing more than dust. 



IX. 



Our birth is the commencement of a train 
Of sorrows, troubles, maladies and cares, 
Misfortune, griefs, and discontent, and pain ; 
And fate for us neither relents nor spares. 

Our childhood forms us by degrees to gain 
A hard insensibility that bears 
Each ill of life, each sharp and bitter bane 
Which or the body racks, or the soul tears. 

Manhood with iron fortitude is armed 
All that fate offers boldly to defy; 
And yet full to the quick is often harmed 

By many a poisoned shaft his bow lets fly. 
In age, weak, sightless, soulless and alarmed, 
All forms of woe exhausted, then we die. 



3(5 REL1G10 POET^E. 



How like an angel who liatli lost his wings, 
Exiled to some cold planet's distant shore. 
Where he must wander hopeless evermore — 
How fallen is man — most wonderful of things ! 

Retaining yet of what he was before, 

Some reminiscence, frequent whisperings 
Remind him he is of the race of kings; — 
How hath he lost the diadem they wore ? 

Lo ! there he stands, a marvel and a token : 
To all the universe a mystery : 
His soul is clouded, and his spirit broken — 

Demons exult, and angels weep to see, 

But heart hath not conceived, nor language spoken 
His God alone knows all his misery. 



XI. 



When I had said to sorrow : fare thee well, — 
And welcomed ease as a friend reconciled, 
I, who had heretofore but scarcely smiled, 
Now summoned laughter at my board to dwell, 



SONNETS. 37 



Which I, to banquet him, with luxury piled. 
And there, too, all the joys I would compel 
Around the festive scene to weave their spell, 
Whose carols gay the passing time beguiled. 

But even while pleasure bounded through the hall, 
Up from the source and fountain of delight 
A something bitter rose, with taste of gall : 

Then came a sense of horror and affright : — 
Woe thundered at the door : — so vanished all, 
While anguish gnawed my heart, my soul grew 
black as night. 



XII. 



I loved her but a summer, and she died : 

Has love for loveliness such enmity ; 

Or was my love born of fatality, 

That jealous death had marked her for his bride ? 
Strange contestation here begins to be, 

Of death and love opposed on either side ; 

Was it that love the silver cord untied ? 

Was it that she must die caused love in me ? 
If love should thus destroy, what then should hate ! 

If coming death cause love, what then would life ! 

Between these two, alas ! that hold debate 



38 RELIGIO POETjE. 



We look to see a never-ending strife ; 

But the lorn heart this fond hope cherisheth 
Love ever yet was conqueror of death. 



xm. 



The voices of the gauzy-winged swarms 

Of insects that all bounteous power display, 

Who made both them and the great sun that warms 

Things insignificant and brief as they. 

The lark that celebrates the birth of day, 
The lordly eagle, rising o'er the storms, 
All things that live, each in its several way, 
Our reason of the wondrous truth informs. 

The tempest hymns it, and the singing wind, 
That sweeps the piny wilderness by night ; 
The ocean when the assembled floods rejoice. 

And shall not man in this instruction find ? 
Shall not the bard to theirs his chant unite, 
Interpreting the universal voice ? 



SONNETS. 39 



XIV 



We murmur at the evil days that frown 

And we set bounds to God's benevolence ; 

Like him whose faith the roaring elements 

Blew quite away, and he cried out : " I drown." 
The Lord is in the storm, his love immense 

Shall lift thee up when thou art most cast down 

Thy sharpest grief may win thee yet a crown. 

Why shouldst thou doubt of his omnipotence ? 
Do what thou hast to do ; attempt no more : 

Fear nothing \ for the end is not with thee. 

Thou knowest not what the future has in store. 
So long as thou hast light enough to see 

The path of duty which thou dost explore, 

It is enough for thine eternity. 



xv 



The poet is a prophet and a priest ; 

And there are seasons when his soul is fired 
With prescience, making him a seer inspired 
From bondage of the present Now released. 



40 RELIGIO poet.t:. 



And it is oft a thing to be admired 

That, singing when this vision rare hath ceased, 

He knows not, no, nor others in the least 

What truths he sung till things have long transpired 

For who, when Maro of his Pollio told, 
In mystic numbers fouud by him alone, 
Divined what his dark utterance might infold? 

Nor could himself, announcing it, have known 
The wonder that its mystery did hold, 
Till time, that shows us all, this too had shown. 



XVI 



0, rose of Sharon ! flower of Paradise ! 
Dear solace of the sad ! bairn of our woe ! 
Hope ! fairest bloom of Eden ! thou didst grow 
Remote and hid from all but angels' eyes. 

Unnoticed till that stern and fatal blow 

On our first parents fell with harsh surprise. 
When banished from those blue propitious skies, 
No more their own, they linger as they go. 

They linger at the gate, and there perceive 
Fresh bathed in morning dew a shady bower, 
Before unknown, wherein the yet weeping Eve 



SONNETS. 41 



Marked through her tears a solitary flower. 

'Twas thine, consoler ! formed the lost to save ; 
She plucked the flower and so to Adam gave. 



XV IT. 



In the beginning of the endless years, 

When the Creator wrought this fabric vast, 
And gave their being to the rushing spheres 
That one by one went bounding onward fast; 

Each portion of the work as it appears 
Accomplished, duly in review is past, 
And, each found good in turn, all nature hears 
The Eternal Word approve the whole at last. — 

Mortal, whate'er thy lot who wouldst excel 
Not in the paths of power or pride of art, 
But in the consciousness of doing well ; 

Make this thy law : see thou that every part 
Be in itself found good, viewed by the soul, 
Trusting thy Maker to approve the whole. 



42 UELIG10 POET.E. 



XV11I. 



Let him who cannot what lie will obtain, 

Will what he can : for that which cannot be 

'Tis folly to desire, then wise is he 

Who knows from what he cannot, to refrain, 

Such, then, the source of all our joy or pain 
What we should will to see or not to see; 
Therefore he only can, whose acts agree 
With duty's law, constant, direct and plain. 

Not always what we can are we to will ; 

Oft things prove bitter that most sweet appear; 
Oft have I mourned at having what I sought; 

Then, reader of these lines, wouldst thou be still 
True to thyself and to all others dear, 
Will always to perform that which thou ought. 



XIX. 



By law, by measure of divided time, 

By number, weight and moment stands the world, 
Which failing, all this edifice sublime 
Would into ruin evermore be hurled. 



SONNETS. 4;> 



So, too, with Poesy, of thought the prime, 

Metre and numbrous cadence well combined 

With jubt division, unison of rhyme, 

In harmony, the perfect labour bind. 
A law as universal and exact 

Maintains the equal balance of the soul : 

Divide and weigh with care each separate act : 
So thou, by just and temperate control, 

Mayst leave, when thou shalt sleep beneath the sod, 

Thy life a poem and a hymn to God. 



xx. 



Things mar ellous and full of beauty rare 
Lie hid within us in our present state, 
The germs whose growth matures in time our fate 
Are scattered round about us every where. 

The soul that silently will contemplate 

With studious patience and assiduous care, 

May for itself the mystery lay bare, 

And through the veil the veiled penetrate. 

Thus darkest things I found to give most light, 
And lowest things ascending I beheld, 
And agony in me produced delight, 



44 RELIGIO poktj:, 



And out of evil good forever welled. 

Nor hath my spirit this the greatest deemed ; 
For by the cross was the lost world redeemed 



xxi. 



If there he merit in sagacious speech, 
Wisdom profound lies oft in silence too ; 
Well guarded meditations sometimes reach 
Farther than words of eloquence can do. 

He will more seldom his imprudence rue — 
He will his understanding less impeach — 
Of folly and remorseful errors, who 
His tongue a cautious indolence can teach. 

Silence her secret doth not deign to show, 
Nor to vain boasting ever yields the reins, 
Silence shall lead thee best thyself to know, 

Silence all violent retort disdains, 

And oft compels another's words to tell 

What may our darkest brooding thoughts dispel. 



SONNETS. 45 



XXII. 



I find within myself, and far within, 

A something strange, that did not come to me 
From aught without me, which is not akin 
To things externalthat I hear or see. 

When, where or how, at first, it might begin, 
Is a profound and hidden mystery ; 
But this I know, it cannot cease to be, 
And not from earth had it its origin. 

It decorates with beauty and with grace 

What else in naturewould be harsh and bare; 
In it the rule and law of truth we trace, 

Which, w r ith all outward forms, we may compare ; 
It holds that seal and type w r hich, understood, 
Is but a symbol of the all-perfect Good : 



XXIII 



Infinity ! Eternity ! each word 

Seems like the echo, rolling on and on, 
Of some tremendous sound, itself unheard, 
And that has ceased to be in ages gone. 



46 RELIGIO POET.E. 



The soul, by themes like these, profoundly stirred, 
Finds no analogy whence can be drawn 
Resemblance, image or comparison, 
To which the limitless may be referred. 

Foreboding shadows ! seen as through the void 
Of an abyss reflected; by what means 
Can our weak minds, on such vast themes employed, 

Pierce through the veil that their dread mystery screens? 
Let thy soul, baffled by her search abroad, 
Muse on herself alone and on her God. 



XXIV. 



This world is one great battle-field, and life 
Is a perpetual strategy. Behold ! 
Nation opposed to nation in fierce strife ; 
Race against race, in hostile arms enrolled ; 

Man against man makes bare the assassin knife, 
Though common laws and country both may hold, 
While words of furious rage seem ever rife 
In heaven's pure air, and not to be controlled. 

What part, what office, or what martial post, 

Shall the good man, the just, who loves his kind, 
Assume throughout the wide embattled host ? 



SONNETS. 47 



What station to the poet is assigned ? 
Angelic voices tell us, to make cease 
The state of war and to endeavour peace. 



xxv 



Misguided moralists, and sages vain, 
Who tell us, of delusions still afraid, 
That honour follows virtue as her shade, 
And the rewards of life good men must gain ! 

No, virtue hath no honour; men have paid 
Their vows to evil ; falsehood may obtain 
Their benedictions ; perjury shall reign ; 
Guilt sit in judgment; crime be richly paid. 

Baseness is honoured : priests are found to bless 
The bloody deeds of violence and fraud 
When they are consecrated by success. 

While shouting multitudes w r ith joy applaud, 
Be silent, thou, son of sacred song ! 
Bind not thy service to triumphant wrong. 



48 RELIGIO POET^E. 



XXVI. 



When desolation comes and sweeps away 
The fruit of all our labours and our toils, 
Making our choice of happiness its prey, 
And our most cherished loves its dearest spoils; 

When far at sea, and clouds obscure the day, 
And in the tempest fierce the ocean boils, 
And the dark night, made darker by dismay, 
Our anxious, sad, long inquisition foils; 

Even then, 'tis but a poor, ungrateful part 
To fear, forgetful of God's guardian love ; 
What through the sons of chaos round thee roar. 

Let duty be the compass, faith the chart, 
And hope the anchor, looking then above 
Thine eves may gaze upon the stars once more. 



XXVII 



I am not old ; and yet, alas ! what things 

Have I seen time perform ! What scores of friends 

Have I seen scattered to the distant ends 

Of the wide earth, beycnd the sea's salt springs I 



SONNETS. 49 



Some, death has visited, and some the slings 
And scourges of misfortune, that transcends 
The bitterness of death, which not extends 
Beyond the hour the agony it brings. 

Full many a change and many a dire reverse 
Have I observed by time untimely wrought; 
Good turned to ill, and ill made ever worse, 

While all our caution doth avail us nought. 

Yet this I have seen, though yet I am not old : 
By time more than all else are we consoled. 



XXVIII. 



Seest thou one patient; then may'st thou be sure 
That he is prudent, just and temperate ; 
And that with fortitude he will endure 
Whatever is allotted him by fate. 

Patience is noblest virtue : all the rest 
Derive from this their true vitality. 
Itself excelling, each attains its best 
With her conjoined in perfect amity. 

Viewed by herself, she might supply them all, 
If that she did not, like a lovely band 
Of sisters, ever round about her call 



50 



RELIGIO POETJE. 



Their group that circle her, and hand in hand, 
Attend her wise delay, and the full term 
Of her deliberation, fixed and firm. 



XXIX. 



The tears come ever to bedim my eyes, 
To read when sacred penman tells us how, 
Ere the Immaculate his head did bow, 
Yielding his life, as when a mortal dies; 

He, to the penitent, who did recognize 

The Grod, though wearing only on his brow 

A crown of thorns, spake thus : " Rejoice, for thou 

To-day shalt he with me in paradise" — 

When thou, thyself, as still thy lot may be, 
In turn, art crucified, bethink thee then 
Of these words spoken from the fatal tree. 

Revile not what thy Lord finds good for thee ; 
Take not thy character from other men, 
But look within, thy heart itself to see. 



SONNETS. 51 



XXX. 



Lord of the universe, who reignest alone, 
Before created things began to be, 
Who shalt endure through all eternity, 
When that which now is shall be overthrown. 

Thou, Sovereign art, tremendous ; power is thine ) 
And a dominion none can comprehend. 
Thou art without beginning — without end — 
Thy glory perfect is, nor knows decline; 

Thou art my God and my Redeemer, Lord, 
My refuge in the day of my distress, 
For thou art ever present when implored, 

A consolation to the comfortless. 

Into thy hands, and to thy care divine, 
By night or day my spirit I resign. 



The Samakitan Woman. 



La sete natural, che mai non sazia, 

Se non colF acqua, onde la femminetta 
Sammaritana dimando la grazia, 

Mi travagliava. 



PART III 



THE SAMARITAN WOMAN. 



With the full majesty and copious blaze 
Attendant on his noontide eminence, 
In ripe dominion of mid-summer days, 
All dazzling with the golden affluence 
Of the collected glory of his rays, 
Showered in directest beam with heat intense, 
The sun, unclouded, through the azure air 
Looked on Samaria and her cities fair. 



II. 



Near a high mountain, whence they oft addressed 
Unto the Father with unhallowed rite 
Their worship and a sacrifice unblessed, 
Where many a groye adorned the pleasant site 



56 RELIGIO POETJE. 



Which Sychar, with her domes and streets possessed, 
Unfriendly city to the Israelite — 
Without the gates, at distance moderate, 
The well of Jacob stood, of ancient date. 



in. 



The public ways deserted seemed ; the heat 
Had forced the citizens to seek repose, 
And each, in some domestic cool retreat, 
Found shelter for the hour ; and only those 
Who must abroad, the curious eye could meet. 
Of these a woman from the city goes 
Unto the well, bearing a vase, to bring 
For household use fresh water from the spring. 



IV. 



Upon her countenance there seemed to be 
More than impatience of the sultry air ; 
Something of grief endured in secresy, 
And the long strife with dull, corroding care, 



THE SAMARITAN WOMAN. 57 



For she was one who, from her infancy, 

Seemed twinned with sorrow; hard had been her share; 

Her heritage had been one long distress, 

And she had drained life's cup of bitterness. 



Her heart was framed most delicate and quick 
To catch a pang from every passing woe ; 
And Fate, alas ! had urged his shafts so thick 
That peace or joy seemed not for her to know; 
Yet, though her soul was weary, sad and sick, 
Silent she bore her burden here below, 
Though every trial left upon her face 
Some furrowed channel, some recording trace. 



VI. 



Yet, Time did do her honour; he had strewn 
The silvery mementos that he flings 
Upon the head of those he long hath known 
To make age venerable, from his wings 



58 RELIGIO POETiE. 



Upon her brow, as it were to atone 
Something for Fate's relentless visitings ; 
And yet it was an honour early won, 
For of her course one half had scarcely run. 



VII. 



Meantime she nears the well, her eye downcast, 
Perchance in inward musing of old days, 
And memories of the unreturning past. 
Slowest, the memory of ill decays. 
Now, when at hand, the place appeared at last, 
She saw one sitting there and drooped her gaze. 
And still advancing, as more near she drew, 
She looked again, and lo, it was a Jew. 



VIII. 



As sitting there against the well reclined, 
All solitary in that lonely place 
Him she perceived, there rose within her mind 
Anticipation of some heavenly grace, 



THE SAMARITAN WOMAN. 59 



Astrange presentiment and undefined, 
But what it is, in vain she strives to trace : 
A joy to sweep away the grief of years ; 
A bliss to dry forever all her tears. 



IX. 



Both travel-worn, he seemed, and poorly clad, 

One for calamity and anguish born ; 

Yet something of grave majesty he had 

That few could gaze on with untempered scorn. 

His countenance was beautiful, but sad. 

He too, perchance, had known to feel and mourn. 

All this she noted, yet she knew not why : 

But most of all she marveled at his eye. 



As on her own its gentle beam was turned, 
At first she felt as she afresh could weep, 
As for dead griefs long years ago inurned, 
And then again, a rapture strong and deep, 



60 RELIGIO POET^E. 



Within her soul, sudden arose and burned. 
As grief and joy alternate wake and sleep, 
Poor soul, she felt, that eye so pure and calm, 
Infused at once a sorrow and a balm. 



XI. 



There shone such tenderness compassionate, 
Healing the desperate infirmities 
Of frail humanity's depraved estate ; 
To wounded spirits, sad, affording ease, 
The affliction of all hearts disconsolate 
To share, and all their brooding agonies ; 
With an immense, transcendent mercy, strong 
In sympathy for undeserved wrong;. 



XII. 



Within those eyes was sphered a light divine, 
Whose mild, pellucid ray had power to gain 
The heart to fervour pensive and benign. 
Nature, in all her wide extended reign, 



THE SAMARITAN WOMAN. 61 



Beholds no lights like these, that tranquil shine, 
No stars with such sweet influence over pain. 
Glorious their deeps appeared, wherein was seen 
A glance of love, pure, steadfast and serene. 



XIII. 



She looked not with him to exchange discourse ; 

He was a Jew, she a Samaritan, 

And the two nations had no intercourse ; 

Thus, still some difference betwixt man and man, 

Discord contrives, from whatsoever source, 

To mar the concord of the maker's plan ; 

A word, a garment even, strangely worn, 

Supplies the cause for mutual hate or scorn. 



XIV. 



As from its sub-terrene and humid bed 

Now she prepares the limpid wave to raise, 

She hears him speak : " Give me to drink/ 1 he said, 

At this, astonished much, her hand she stays, 



62 RELIG10 POETyE. 



And turning, by some secret influence led, 
Answering, she scarce knows what, her thoughts a maze, 
" How is it, Sir, a Hebrew should demand 
Water of me, born in Samaria's land V 



xv. 



He then, returning, answer made again ; 

She listening with her soul : " If thou but knew 

That, which if wanting, all things else are vain, 

The gift of God, allotted to how few ! 

Or if the thoughts thy mind doth entertain 

Did but advise thee by conjecture who 

It is, that here encountered by the way, — 

Give me to drink — hath asked of thee to-day. 



XVI. 



" 0, daughter of Samaria ! then indeed, 

Thou would'st not question from what ancestry 

His people or thine own of old proceed ; 

But first thou would'st have asked of him, and he 



THE SAMARITAN WOMAN. 63 



With living waters had supplied thy need." 
He paused : his words bore that authority, 
Even in their solemn sound, that did declare 
That she beheld no common presence there. 



XVII. 



As one who lingers, and with varied phrase, 
Seeking his thought, intent his words to weave, 
Turning his mind in many different ways, 
Not daring quite to ask, lest he should grieve, 
What most he longs for; or as who essays 
Distinctly, by much speaking to perceive, 
(Not knowing) what it is, he would obtain j 
So she speaks only as 'twere time to gain. 



XVIII. 



For who, that had such grave discourse conveyed 
Through the nice channel of the listening ear, 
To that interior world, would not have said, 
u This gift of God explain, and make appear 



64 RELIGTO POETJE. 



What it may be f nor would he have delayed 
The inquiry : "Who art thou that sittest here ?" 
Were not the unbalanced and perturbed soul 
Wrestling with thoughts too mighty to control ? 



XIX. 



Patience, therefore, ye who the part assume, 

Upon its perilous way, a soul to guide, 

That long hath struggled onward through the gloom 

It is no office for ungenial pride, 

Which there to dove-eyed pity must give room ; 

For bounteous heaven in mercy doth provide, 

So that, when oft most blind it may appear, 

It is about to gain a sight most clear. 



xx. 



And patience, ye, whose unavailing toil 
Your sleepless search for truth hath long pursued ; 
Upon whose path with conflict and turmoil 
Misfortune still attends with all her brood ; 



THE SAMARITAN WOMAN. 65 



Whose head is as a mark whereon recoil 
Hopes changed to woes by sad vicissitude : 
When wandering, to yourselves ye seemed to stray 
Most, then 'twas oft ye most were in the way. 



XXT. 



But she said only thus, in vain reply ; 

Or vain at least in seeming; " Sir, behold, 

The well is deep ) far down the waters lie ; 

And thou hast nothing wherewithal to hold, 

Or draw them up, whence then shalt thou supply 

That living water whereof thou hast told." 

She paused : and as her thoughts now clearer grew, 

Thus did she their yet winding course pursue. 



XXII. 



" Our father, Jacob, what time he did dwell 
Within this bounteous region would partake 
Himself, and drank the waters of this well ; 
His children and his cattle here did slake 



66 RELIUIO POET^E. 



Their thirst ; and as our old traditions tell, 
He gave it to our people and did make 
Of it our own possession — Can it be — 
And art thou then a greater one than he I* 



XXIII. 

He then in answer thus returned once more : 
" Whoso shall with the water drawn from hence 
Allay his thirst, does but awhile restore 
His soul, and for the time alone contents 
His longing appetite, but as before 
He thirsted, now, and with as keen a sense, 
So shall he thirst again : thou need'st not learn 
Of this, who here each day dost thrice return. 



xxiv. 



" Not so, those other springs that take their rise 
From a deep source and pure, that cannot fail : 
Not so, the abundant fountain that supplies 
The stream I tell thee of, that doth avail 



THE SAMARITAN WOMAN. 67 



Those unto whom 'tis given far otherwise, 
When once their fainting souls the draught inhale, 
For whosoe'er that water shall obtain 
Which I shall give shall never thirst again. 



XXV. 



" Wherefore, to whom I shall that fountain show, 
And to his eyes unsealed shall grant to see ; 
Upon whose spirit refreshed I shall bestow 
That water which he shall implore of me ; 
In him it shall become a well whose flow 
Upspringing pure, forever more shall be 
The source of everlasting life : draw near, 
And mark these blessings with attentive ear. 



XXVI. 



" Blessed are they, the poor in spirit \ for theirs 
Shall be that kingdom, even now at hand : 
And blessed are the meek ; for they are heirs 
Of earth's wide heritage and full command ; 



68 religio poetje. 



Blessed the merciful ; them mercy spares, 
When judgment stern the forfeit would demand : 
Blessed the pure in heart; to them 'tis given 
To see their God, the best beloved of heaven. 



xxvu. 



" Blessed are the peace-makers, the children they 
Of G-od are called ; for they the Father please : 
Blessed are they that mourn; there comes a day 
Shall wipe away their tears and give them ease : 
Blessed who hunger and for wisdom pray, 
And righteousness : Who thirst for truth; for these 
That living fountain flows. If thou believe, 
Thou also of these waters mayst receive." 



XXVIII. 



As when for many days the heavens deny 
Their moisture to the field, the hill, the plain; 
No clouds or vapours cool the molten sky; 
Men fear their hopes of harvest will be vain ; 



THE SAMARITAN WOMAN. 69 



The meadow's rivulets begin to dry ; 
The herds and feathered tribes droop for the rain 
The woods with dusky colours are embrowned, 
And thick dust covers all the parched ground. 



XXIX. 



At length the winds aroused, assert their power, 
The clouds, far gathering, are now revealed, 
Redoubling fold on fold in gloom they lower, 
Then to the earth below their torrents yield, 
"Which fall abundant in continuous shower, 
Grateful, reviving plain and hill and field. 
All nature gladdens. So, too, at his voice, 
Her heart, revived within her, doth rejoice. 



XXX. 



And now with more directness than before, 
" Give me this water, Sir, thou dost dispense ; 
So that therewith my soul I may restore, 
That I thirst not, since such its excellence ; 



70 RELIGIO POET.E. 



And that I need hereafter come no more, 
Morn, noon, or eve, to draw fresh water hence." 
She half divines the words that frame his speech, 
Though their first meaning deeper meanings reach. 



XXXI. 



But he, perchance, still further to evade 

The inquiry now awakened in her mind ; 

Or as, perchance, the benefit delayed, 

Some higher consecration were designed : 

" Go call thy husband;" such reply he made 

In low, grave accents, u whom when thou shalt find. 

Bring thou him hither. I, meantime, remain 

Expectant here till you return again." 



XXXII. 



At this there grew upon her brow a cloud : 

Some thought seemed present that she fain would shun, 

Inwardly murmuring : then she spoke aloud : 

"I have no husband." Checking thereupon, 



THE SAMARITAN WOMAN. 71 



Pondering, she paused; half humbled and half proud, 

Reiterating, " husband have I none." 

To her own self she seemed to speak the word : 

As if to that ear aught were e'er unheard. 



XXXIII. 



The effulgent lustre of his god-like eye, 
Which for an instant now her own had met, 
Shone with complete and full divinity, 
Piercing her soul. But no disdain nor yet 
Aught of reproach could she therein descry : 
Mild as the moon on blue Gennesaret 
Appears his glance : with half averted head, 
She listened to his words : " Thou hast well said. 



XXXIV. 



"I know thee well, though me thou knowest not, 
And all thy memory's darkest cells hold stored, 
With much beside, unnoted or forgot, 
I could to thy remembrance now record, 



72 REL1GI0 POET^E. 



And for the endurance of tliine earthly lot 
Tell thee of an unlooked for, rich reward. 
There is a merit in restrained sighs ; 
Sorrow makes pure, and suffering sanctifies. 



XXXV 



" For thou a mother's kindness and sweet care 
In thy young days to nurture thee didst miss; 
Thy brow, already furrowed, does not wear 
The holy seal of the maternal kiss : 
Thou hast sustained a loss without repair, 
And it was still thy fate to add to this 
Such discipline for thy life's pilgrimage, 
As made thy very childhood like old age. 



XXXVI. 



" For there are things which language cannot tell 
To woman best by dear example shown ; 
Things womanly, that with a hallowed spell 
Encompass her : these thou hast never known. 



THE SAMARITAN WOMAN. 73 



And this thy rising spirit oft would quell, 

To feel thyself forsaken and alone. 

A mother's guidance only can impart 

These things, thou thought'st within thy aching heart. 



XXXVII. 



" And oft thou didst with sad confusion note 
Between thyself and others of the crowd, 
This difference which kept thee still remote. 
Already with this early burden bowed, 
Grief, fate, reproach, thy heart, life, hearing smote ; 
The world appalled thee with its clamour loud, 
Thrust forth untaught to meet its endless strife, 
Thou didst essay that miserable life ; 



XXXVIII, 



" For such it is, and hardly to be borne, 

To wander forth midst strangers o'er the earth, 

From house to house, and thankless and forlorn, 

To sit an alien at another's hearth : 
4 



74 RELIGIO FOETJE. 



To hear the words of cold respectful scorn 
In bitter silence mid their unshared mirth. 
This thou hast done : while oft thej would repeat, 
Give place, give place, that I my friends may seat. 



XXXIX. 



" This wearies more than life's more violent shocks. 
I, too, a wanderer am : the birds of air 
Possess their nests for shelter, and the fox 
Hath in the earth his hole ; the wolf, the bear, 
Their caverns in the hollow of the rocks 
May find securely — but I have not where 
To lay my head : nor have I ever known 
Dwelling or shelter I might call my own. 



XL. 



" Behold once more : thy life is changed again, 
Joy at thy heart, and bright reviving hope; 
And sporting at thy knee thy children twain, 
And thou art dreaming now no more to cope 



THE SAMARITAN WOMAN. lo 



With fate — how brief that vision and how vain ! 
One little mound beneath its grassy slope 
Infolds thy little ones in innocent sleep ; 
Nor do I scorn thee for that thou dost weep." 



XLI. 



Long had the t:ars unconscious from her eyes, 
As one by one her woes he doth recount, 
Dropped one by one, which now in floods arise, 
Impetuous, uncontrolled, from their salt fount : 
A cry that soon in plaintive moaning dies, 
But one, no more, doth from her bosom mount, 
She bent her head, and still with rocking form 
And clasped hands shook in that inward storm. 



XLII, 



But he resumed the interrupted thread 
Of his discourse, and pitying her distress, 
As who would not, " Truly thou hast well said." 
Thus he began, " In that thou didst confess 



76 RELIGIO POET.?!. 



I have no husband ; think not thou needst dread 
From me the world's unfeeling bitterness. 
Of all faults I have come to pay the price : 
And I love mercy and not sacrifice. 



XLIII. 



il For thou hast had five husbands ; but the due 
Ritual neglected, he whom now thou hast, 
Is not thy husband : there thou hast said true." 
He paused. When she beheld again the past, 
Whence, not unkindly thus the veil he drew, 
And marked his gracious mien, she deems at last 
His words, who spoke as never man hath spoken, 
Some messenger of God seem to betoken. 



xliy. 



Then she responding, said : " I do pereeive, 
Sir, that thou art a prophet to whom appear 
Things past, and things to come : who dost receive 
Knowledge inspired from heaven and insight clear. 



THE SAMARITAN WOMAN. 77 



For many things have I had cause to grieve, 
And wept the loss of those whom I held dear, 
; Tis true, 'tis certain. Thou hast told me all 
That e'er I did, or did to me befall. 



XLV. 



" As we by our traditions have been told 
Our fathers worshipped in this mountain, we 
There also worship as they did of old, 
Whom in high places most we think to be, 
As being high himself; him Lord we hold, 
Father of all, and Sovereign Deity. 
The Jews our rites disown, and men, they say, 
Should worship at Jerusalem, as they." 



XLYI. 



At this he mused ; enthroned upon his brow 
Sat sacred sorrow : " Jerusalem, 
Jerusalem, which killest the prophets, thou 
Who even to thy altars stonest them 



RELIGIO POET.E. 



Which are sent to thee : who even now 

Art rising in thy fury to condemn 

The last and mightiest; for there come no more, 

Even mercy now wearied doth shut the door. 



XL VII. 



" How often, looking on thee would I yearn 

To thee with fostering solicitude, 

And as the watchful hen, with fond concern, 

G-athereth beneath her wings her tender brood, 

Thus calling on thy children to return, 

(If love might overcome ingratitude) 

Even so would I have gathered them. But ye 

Would not. Behold, ye have rejected me. 



XLVIII. 



" Your house is left unto you desolate ; 
Your glory and your pride shall pass away : 
Wanderers and exiles, strangers in the gate, 
Throughout the earth your children take their way, 



THE SAMARITAN WOMAN. 79 



A thing of wonder, and a sign of fate. 
Much shall they mourn \ yet, verily, I say, 
Nothing again your nation shall restore, 
And me, disdained, ye shall behold no more, 



XLIX, 



"Till ye shall say with penitential cry, 
And by unnumbered evils sore distressed, 
1 Blessed is he that cometh from on high 
In the Lord's name to give his people rest/ " 
Then to her question thus he made reply, 
For such it was, though not as such expressed ; 
For reverence o'erawing her desire 
She dare not freely as she would inquire. 



L. 



" Woman, believe me, that the hour is near, 
It cometh, when from the consecrated height 
Which you have chosen on this mountain here, 
No longer men with sacrificial rite, 



80 RELIGIO POET^E. 



Shall worship him whom ye as God revere ; 
Nor yet within Jerusalem unite 
There to adore the Father, and their praise 
Or supplication to the Eternal raise. 



LI. 



" Your people have neglected and forgot 
To worship God aright, and long ago 
Have erred in many ways, and ye know not 
Wherefore nor with what hope ye make the show 
Of your devotion here, nor unto what 
Your prayers ascend and altars burn : we know 
Whom we do worship well ; for of the Jews 
Salvation is ; though they the gift refuse. 



LII. 



" The years are numbered, and the period vast 
True to the bound by the Omnipotent 
Determined in the night of ages past, 
Even to the uttermost, is well nigh spent : 



THE SAMARITAN WOMAN. 81 



The fixed and propitious date at last 
Draws to the verge of its accomplishment : 
The appointed season cometh, and the year, 
The day, the hour, and even now is here, 



LIII. 



" When they the humble and afflicted band, 

The weary, heavy-laden and oppressed, 

Who are sought out by Heaven from land to land, 

And who themselves seek with unwearied quest 

The hidden truth and life to understand, 

Shall have their doubts resolved and set at rest ; 

And the true worshippers shall evermore 

In spirit and in truth their God adore. 



liy. 



" For he who o'er the universe doth reign, 
The father, doth in pity condescend, 
And, seeing how misguided and how vain 
Are human thoughts, doth his assistance lend ; 



82 RELIGIO POEM3. 



And sceketh from their error to regain 
Such, that though lost in wandering without end, 
Have spirits capacious yet of infinite love ) 
Wise as the serpent, harmless as the dove, 



LV. 



" Not on exalted mountain tops alone, 
Nor in the solemn shade of temples dim 
Doth the Almighty make his presence known, 
To whom the Cherubim and Seraphim 
Bow down and veil their faces round the throne. 
God is a Spirit ; and they that worship him, 
Children, renewed in consecrated youth, 
Must worship him in spirit and in truth." 



LVI. 



Then saith the woman : " This full well I know ; 
There cometh one predicted by the wise 
Of old, to rule the nations here below : 
A mighty king, Messias shall arise 



THE SAMARITAN WOMAN. 83 



Which is called Christ, who when he cometh will show 
His people that which now in darkness lies, 
And none that ask of him shall ask in vain, 
For he shall tell us all things and make plain." 



LVII. 



At the so earnest impulse of her word 
A smile broke o'er his face like dawning day. 
And blessed are the ears that once have heard 
The truth that now he doth prepare to say ; 
And blessed is the heart that hath preferred 
That truth which stands when all shall pass away. 
" Christ — this Messias whom ye look to see — 
Behold, I that speak unto thee, am he." 



THE END. 



BASIS OF THE POEM, 



MEDITATIONS AND NOTES EXPLANATOKY, 



The poet, when sent among men by the common 
Father of all, whose wisdom assigns to each his office 
and his vocation, is but too often received as Joseph 
was by his brethren, who, when they saw him ap- 
proach, said, one to another : " Behold, this dreamer 
cometh." Sometimes there are those who would take 
from him his raiment of many colours, the u garland 
and singing robes" of which Milton tells, and infect it 
with blood not his own. Some would have him ban- 
ished from the polity, or put to death j others would 
put him into a pit: whatever, in fact, could be de- 
vised, provided only that he was, in some manner, put 
out of the way. The best disposed and most benevo- 
lent in counsel conclude to sell him to the Ishmaelites. 

Nevertheless, when there is a famine in the land, 
and their harvests fail them, and their souls hunger 



86 RELIGIO POET.E. 



after something better than the husks gathered about 
the market places of the world, they are fain to go into 
a strange country, even unto the land of Egypt, which 
is the land of science and high philosophy, where they 
make their petition to that very Joseph whom they ill- 
treated ; the dreamer then, and now the interpreter of 
dreams, and one of the chief princes of that region 
into which he had been sold into bondage. 

Perceiving, then, that the visions of which they 
thought so lightly have something divine about them, 
their hostility is appeased or confounded. But on his 
part, if he prove them to be from heaven, to heaven 
he must ascribe the honour. Upon this idea is 
founded that which I call the Religio Poetde. 



II. 



If Poetry were altogether a human invention and 
no more, the contrivance and creation of the ingeni- 
ous, and this only, then the influence of opinion might 
be a serious consideration for those who cultivate it. 
But it is something implanted in our nature, and im- 
pressed upon the whole constitution and frame of this 
world : 



BASIS OF THE POEM. 87 



"Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven, 
There where the farthest suns and stars have birth ;" 

and, therefore, that it is held in greater and less regard 
and esteem at particular times, or by particular men, is 
of very little consequence, either to the poet or to his 
art. Being, as it is essentially, a part of the estab- 
lished order of nature, having a priority of origin and 
a pre-eminence of design to ourselves as we exist in 
this world, fixed and determined in no manner subject 
to mutable opinions, those opinions indeed are of no 
more real importance, absolutely in this respect, than 
was the command of the Danish monarch when he op- 
posed the influences of his power to those of the ad- 
vancing tide. 

When Lord Bacon, therefore, had quoted with some 
approbation the saying of one of the fathers, that it is 
vinum dsemonum, he seems almost immediately in- 
clined to retract. He did not perhaps perceive that 
the poet also is one of the interpreters of nature, an 
employment which, he thought, could occupy phi- 
losophers alone. For there are many things in heaven 
and earth that are not dreamed of in philosophy, but 
which the muses may make clear to the minds of the 
simple and the wise. Might he not rather have said 
that it is the wine, or rather the nectar, of angels or of 
the more angelic part of our nature ? The sons of 



88 RELTGIO VOETJE. 



morning sang together of old, the angels sang to the 
shepherds by night at the birth of the Prince of 
Peace ; and to ourselves is promised a new song here- 
after ; if we are worthy to sing it. 

And there is another saying of the fathers, the 
spirit and intent of which, perhaps, may be set against 
that of Lord Bacon ; for they deemed a love and apti- 
tude for music — and is not poetry one form for music 
— the music of language ? — they deemed, it is said, a 
love for music to be a sign and indication of a soul 
predestined to the beatitudes of the celestial city. 

But some, perhaps, will be disposed to regard this 
whole speculation as a paradox. T mean that which 
makes man to discover poetry, as he does the system of 
nature, not to invent it. I should not, I confess, have 
advanced it on my own authority alone, for indeed, in 
as much as 



Dirvi clvio sia saria parlare indarno : 
Che'l norae mio ancor molto non suona. — 



Yet, that the reader who doubts may, at least, say to 
himself : 

Non so, chi sia : ma so. ch'ei non e solo. 



BASIS OF THE POEM. 89 



I shall endeavour, by several quotations, to prove suf- 
ficiently as I proceed, though by no means to the 
extent and with the full detail that is possible, and 
which might here be shown to be so, were there not 
such narrow limits fixed to these observations by their 
plan. 



III. 



The idea developed in the Proem, is one which, at 
some time or other, must have entered the minds of 
many. The magnificence that attends the rising sun 
seems to remind the imaginative of some brighter 
world in which they formerly abode, and the pomp of 
sunset appears like an anticipation and a promise of 
another life in a happier sphere hereafter. " Oh ! that 
I had wings like a dove ! for then would I fly away, 
and be at rest," is the exclamation of the sacred 
psalmist. And again : " If I take the wings of the 
morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; 
even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand 
shall hold me." An attempt has been made in this 
place to exhibit the sentiment in one of its forms by a 
free translation from a living poet. The original is 



90 



RELIGIO POET^E. 



here given with the remark that the author speaks of 
sunset and not of davn. 



Oh ! sur des ailes ! dans les nues, 
Laissez-moi fuir ! laissez-moi fuir ! 
Loin des regions inconnues 
C'est assez rever et languir ! 
Laissez-moi fuir vers d'autres mondes : 
C'est assez, dans des nuits profondes, 
Suivre un phare, chercher un mot. 
C'est assez de songe et de doute, 
Cette voix que d'en bas j'ecoute, 
Peut-etre on l'entend mieux la-haut. 



Allons ! des ailes ou des voiles ! 
Allons un vaisseau tout arme ! 
Je veux voir les autres etoiles, 
Et la croix du sud enflamme. 
Peut-etre dans cette autre terre 
Trouve-t-on la clef du mystere 
Cache sous Fordre universel ; 
Et peut-etre aux fils de la lyre 
Est-il plus facile de lire 
Dans cette autre page du ciel ! 



BASIS OF THE POEM. 91 



IV. 



Lord Bacon, in his book of the Wisdom of the An- 
cients, has interpreted their fables concerning Pan 
philosophically. a The ancients," he says, " have ex- 
quisitely described Nature under the person of Pan, 
whose original they lea e doubtful ; for some say that 
he was the son of Mercury, others attribute unto him 
a far different beginning;" and so he continues to nar- 
rate the different stories concerning this god that the 
poets or popular invention had devised. " This," he 
adds," is a noble tale ; — Pan, as his name imports, rep- 
resents and lays open the All of things or nature. 
Concerning his original, there are only two opinions 
that go for current; for either he came of Mercury, 
that is, the Word of God, which the Holy Scriptures 
without all controversy affirm, and such of the philoso- 
phers as had any smack of divinity assented unto, or 
else from the confused seeds of things. For they that 
would have one simple beginning, they would have it- 
various in power ; so that we may end the controversy 
with this distribution, that the world took beginning, 
either from Mercury, or from the seeds of all things. 

" Namque canebat uti magnum per inane coacta 
Semina, terrarumque, animasque marisque fuissent. 



92 BELIGIO POETjE. 



Et liquidi simul ignis : Et his exordia primis 
Omnia et ipse tener mundi concreverit orbis/ 



For rich-vein'd Orpheus sweetly did rehearse 

How that the seeds of fire, air, water, earth, 

Were all pact in the vast void universe ; 

And how from these, as first things, all had birth, 

And how the body of this orbic frame, 

From tender infancy so big became. 



"But, as touching the third conceit of Pan's original, 
it seems that the Grecians, either by intercourse with 
the Egyptians, or one w r ay or other, had heard some- 
thing of the Hebrew mysteries; for it points to the 
state of the world, not considered in immediate crea- 
tion, but after the fall of Adam, exposed and made 
subject to death and corruption ; for in that state it was, 
and remains to this day, the offspring of God and sin \ 
and therefore all these three narrations concerning the 
manner of Pan's birth may seem to be true, if it be 
rightly distinguished between things and times. For 
this Pan, or Nature, which we inspect, contemplate, 
and reverence more than is fit, took beginning from 
the Word of God by the means of confused matter, 
and the entrance of prevarication and corruption. 
The destinies may well be thought the sisters of Pan, 
or Nature, because the beginnings, and continuances, 



BASIS OF THE POEM. 98 



and corruptions, and depressions, and dissolutions, and 
eminences, and felicities of things, and all the chances 
which can happen unto any thing, are linked with the 
chain of causes natural." 

" Nature is also excellently set forth with a bi-formed 
body, with respect to the differences between superior 
creatures. For one part, by reason of their pulchri- 
tude and equability of motion, and constancy and do- 
minion over the earth and earthly things, is worthily 
set out by the shape of man ; and the other part in 
respect of their perturbations and unconstant motions, 
and therefore needing to be moderated by the celestial, 
may be well fitted with the figure of a brute beast. 
This description of his body pertains also to the par- 
ticipation of species ; for no natural being seems to be 
simple, but as it were participated and compounded of 
two ; as, for example, man hath something of a beast, 
a beast something of a plant, a plant something of in- 
animate body, so that all natural things are in very 
deed bi-formed, that is to say, compounded of a supe- 
rior and inferior species." 

"The two ensigns which Pan bears in his hands do 
point, the one at harmony, the other at empire; for the 
pipe, consisting of seven reeds, doth evidently de- 
monstrate the consent, and harmony, and discordant 
concord of all inferior creatures, which is caused by 



94 RELIGIO VOETJE. 



the motion of the seven planets : and that of the 
sheep-hook may be excellently applied to the order of 
nature, which is partly right, partly crooked : this staff, 
or rod, therefore, is especially crooked in the upper 
end, because all the works of Divine Providence in 
the w r orld are done in a far-fetched and circular man- 
ner, so that one thing may seem to be effected, and yet 
indeed a clean contrary brought to pass, as the selling 
of Joseph into Egypt, and the like." 

"He was held to be lord president of the mountains; 
because in the high mountains, and hills nature lays her- 
self most open, and men most apt to view and contem- 
plation/' 

" Whereas, Pan is said to be next unto Mercury, the 
messenger of the gods, there is in that a divine mys- 
tery contained j for, next to the Word of God, the 
image of the world proclaims the power and wisdom 
divine, as sings the sacred poet. Psalms xix : i. — 
" Coeli ennarant gloriam Dei, atone opera, manuion ejus 
indicat firmamentum" The heavens declare the glory 
of God, and the firmament showeth the works of his 
hands." 

And so the learned author continues with much de- 
tail to explain all parts of the allegory. He concludes 
with the observation that Pan, being the sum and 
whole of things, had no consort, or wife, except Echo, 



BASIS OF THE POEM. 95 



which is a mere voice of speech by which nature is 
interpreted, sound for sound, note for note. And this 
he holds to be the right and proper business of phi- 
losophy — namely, the accurate interpretation of nature 
without addition or change of any kind. It is not 
necessary to open the matter at large. Whoever shall 
read the extracts above given attentively and reflect 
upon them seriously, will perhaps discover more in the 
Religio Poetae than was first perceived, and greater 
evidence dawning upon the theory suggested in the 
second of these notes (II.) than, possibly, was first 
discerned. 

What the poets had invented concerning Pan was 
doubtless originally derived from what the philoso- 
phers taught concerning the Soul of the World, which 
was breathed into it by the Creator, and radiating from 
its centre, animates all things and extends far as the 
bounds of nature herself. The opinion seems to have 
been one of the most ancient, nor is it without a 
foundation or a counterpart in revelation, as we have 
seen by the showing of Bacon. And Solomon, in the 
book of his Wisdom, seems to speak to the same purpose 
when he says: " For thine incorruptible spirit is in all 
things.'' Rightly understood, there is nothing in this 
belief that is not equally germane to religion and to 
sound philosophy. 



96 RELIGIO POET^E. 



Estne Dei sedes nisi terra, et pontus, et aer, 

Et coeluni, et virtus ? 

Jupiter est ; quodcumque vides quocumque moveris. 



On the temple of Isis, in Egypt, was this inscription 
recorded by Plutarch : 

" I am all that was, and is, and shall be ; and my 
veil no mortal has yet withdrawn :" 



Eyu» eI/jU rtav to yeyovos, xai bv, xai iGo/xivov, xai tbv 
ifiov 7iS7tXov ov8ei$ rtto Ov/jtos a7i£xd%v^>s. 

In the mind of the poet, above all others, does the 
idea of a soul of the world open a vast and lofty range 
of thought. All things become endowed with a mean- 
ing, and a spirit, speaking to the soul with a voice 
sacred as oracles. Every flower of the field, and every 
oak of the forest, has now its separate life, and that 
life is in some strange and mysterious manner one with 
the meditative soul of him, who, in his contemplations, 
and in the hours of his melancholy musings can cast 
off the chains of sense and the prejudices of custom 
living only in intellect. For him the Cosmical Psyche ; 
the soul of the World is Poesy. 



BASIS OF THE POEM. 97 



Shakespeare, in some sort the most intensely prac- 
tical of men, and in whom worldly observation and 
common sense were so strong, was yet, at the same 
time, one to whom this hidden spirit of Nature 
deigned most bounteously to manifest itself. 



Not my own fears, nor the prophetic soul, 
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come, 
Can yet the date of my true love control. 



These lines, in which the great English poet at- 
tributes prophetic inspiration to the universal spirit, 
thus anticipating one of the most subtle and lofty theo- 
ries of Leibnitz, anticipating, too, perhaps, a discovery 
which science seems upon the eve of making, prove 
how profoundly he had meditated this theme. Nor 
here alone, but throughout his works we may detect 
breathings of the same oracle. 

Observe, too, how in his moods of pensive reverie, 
and in moments of strong passion, his soul dissolves, 
melts away, and, uniting itself, becomes one with na- 
ture and the universe. Observe in the last act of the 
Merchant of Venice, how the lover, rapt by the 
blended influences of music and moonlight, rises in 
thought above things terrestrial 
5 



98 RELIGIO POET.E. 



How sweet the moon-light sleeps upon this bank ! 
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night, 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
Sit, Jessica : look, how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold : 
There's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st, 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 
Still quiring to the young-ey'd cherubins ; 
Such harmony is in immortal souls; 
But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close us in, we cannot hear it. 



Observe in Lear that invocation in which the old 
king assimilates and identifies the associations of age in 
himself and the object addressed : 



0, heavens, 



If you do love old men, if your sweet sway 

Allow obedience, if yourselves are old, 

Make it your cause : send down, and take my part ! 



Neither has Milton, nurtured in ancient lore and in 
the Hebrew writings, and by his blindness led to much 
silent communing with himself the depth and solem- 
nity of which none can doubt, — neither has he failed 
to express a like belief in many places, and his sweet- 



BASIS OF THE POEM. 99 



est strains and boldest flights proceed from the same 
origin. Pope, even, who is supposed by some to stand 
at the antipodes of the regions where those natural 
promptings that breath in the wild wood notes of the 
Swan of Avon, or in the organ tones of the bard of 
Paradise are caught, and to be wholly shackled by the 
conventionalities of art, he too is full of the same in- 
spiration in the noblest of his works. 



All are but parts of one stupendous Whole, 

Whose body nature is, and God the soul ; 

That, changed through all, and yet in all the same, 

Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame; 

Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 

Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees; 

Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 

Spreads undivided, operates unspent; 

Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 

As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 

As full as perfect, in vile man that mourns, 

As the rapt Seraph that adores and burns ; 

To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 

He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all . 



With one more quotation — and it is believed that the 
nature of the subject and the excellence of these ex- 
tracts are such that they will appear too few rather 
than too many — one more quotation, and I leave this 



100 RELIGIO POETiE. 



part of my subject. They are indeed necessary ; for the 
allusions in the opening lines of the poem were all in- 
tended in this direction. For the rest, these things, to 
minds rightly constituted, must, like the religion of 
revelation, carry their own proof with them, and gene- 
rate fruits more or less luxuriant in proportion to the 
faith that admits and the zeal that ponders them. The 
reader need not be reminded that the following stanzas 
are from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. 

I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me; and to me, 
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
Of human cities torture : I can see 
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshy chain, 
Classed among creatures, when the soul can flee, 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 



And when at length the mind shall be all free 
From what it hates in this degraded form, 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
When elements to elements conform, 
And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
The bodiless thought? the spirit of each spot, 
Of which, even now, T have at times the immortal lot? 



BASIS OF THE POEM. 101 



Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
With a pure passion ? Should I not contemn 
All objects, if compared with these and stem 
A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm 
Of those whose eyes are only turned below, 
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not 
glow ? 



Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ! 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven 
That in our aspirations to be great, 
Our destinies o'erlcap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar, 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves 
a star. 



All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — 
All heaven and earth are still : from the high host 
Of stars, to the luli'd lake and mountain-coast, 
All is concentred in a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
But has a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 



102 RELIGIO POET.E. 



Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In solitude, where we are least alone ; 
A truth, which through our being then doth melt 
And purifies from self: it is a tone, 
The soul and source of music, which makes known 
External harmony, and sheds a charm, 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's Zone, 
Binding all things with beauty; — 't would disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. 



V. 



Of the sonnets, each contains some truth or thought 
whether of morals or of religion. The confessed mis- 
ery and hopeless condition of man is, in a variety of 
forms, made the chief theme. The general design is, 
to show how, from the whole united the human mind 
is led to faith, hope, and the conscience of something 
better than this life, and thence to a contemplation of 
the Deity. For man is a problem and a marvel to him- 
self. Such indeed is his condition that he cannot at 
any time rest at peace, if he would ; but is continually 
urged forward partly by what he sees around him, 
partly by something within him, unseen yet none the 
less potent, till his search has made him discover the 
great truths which most concern his welfare and eter- 
nal destinies. Either curiosity simply, or wonder and 



BASIS OF THE POEM. 108 



admiration, or the wants and needs of existence, or the 
strange events transpiring in the world, or individual 
and personal perplexities and calamities, or fear, or re- 
morse, or, in fine, the voice of God speaking in us, pro- 
duces a spirit of enquiry; and step by step, line upon 
line, precept upon precept, of necessity, the discovery 
is made, that this life is not the whole of our being, 
that the miserable creature which man appears is nev- 
ertheless gifted with transcendent powers, and thus by 
degrees the whole range of those essential and eternal 
verities of which a few are here suggested becomes 
apparent. 

The exclamation of Pascal is echoed in every 
thoughtful soul : " L'homme est a lui meme le plus 
prodigieux objet de la nature ) car il ne peut concevoir 
ce que c'est que corps, et encore moins ce que c'est qu'es- 
prit, et moins qu'aucune chose comment un corps peut 
etre uni avec un esprit. C'est la le comble de ses dif- 
ficulty et cependant c'est son propre etre." And 
again: " S'il se vante, je l'abaisse; s'il s'abaisse, je le 
vante; et je le contredis toujours, jusqu'a ce qu'il 
comprenne qu'il est un monstre incomprehensible." 
And the response has gone up from every land, in 
every age, and every tongue. 



104 RELIGIO POETiE. 



Turn porro puer, ut saevis projectus ab undis 
Navita, nudus hurni jacet infans, indigus omni 
Vitai auxilio, cum primum in luminjs oras 
Nixibus ex alvo matris natura profudit \ 
Vagi tuque locum lugubri coinplet, ut sequum est, 
Cui tan turn in vita restet transire malorum. 



Thus rendered by a French poet 



Quand je re§us la vie au milieu des alarm es, 

Et qu'aux cris maternels repondant par des larmcs, 

J'entrai dans l'univers, escorte des douleurs, 

J'y vins pour y marcher de malheurs en malheurs. 



VI. 



The picture of human life, indeed, from infancy to 
old age has been drawn by many hands, yet with curi- 
ous uniformity in the outlines. Several of the sonnets 
on this theme are translations, the originals of which 
are here given : 



Sogni e favole io fingo ; e pure in carte, 
Mentre favole, e sogni orno, e disegno, 
In lor, f'olle ch'io son, prendo tal parte, 
Che del mal che inventai, piango e mi sdegno. 



BASIS OF THE POEM. 105 



Ma forse allor che non m'ingana Tarte, 
Piu saggio io sono ? e Fagitate ingegno 
Forse allor piu tranquillo ? o forse parte 
Da piu salda cagion l'anior, lo sdegno ? 

Ah ! che non sol quelle ch'io canto, o scrivo 
Favole son ; ma quanto terno, o spero, 
Tutto e menzogna, e delirando io vivo ! 

Sor/no delta mia vita e il cor so intero. 

Deh tu, signor, quando a destarmi arrivo ; 
Fa eh'io trovi riposo in sen del vero. 



Perche bramar la vita ? E quale in lei 
Piacer si trova ? Ogni fortuna e pena, 
E miseria ogni eta. Tremiam fanciulli 
D'un guardo al minacciar. Siam gioco adulti 
Di fortuna, e d'amor. Gemiam canuti 
Sotto il peso degli anni. Or ne tormenta 
La bra ma d'ottenere : or ne trafigge 
Di perdere il timore : e tern a gtierra 
Hanno i rei eon se stessi ; i giusti l'hanno 
Coll'invidia e la frode. Ombre, delirj, 
Sogni, follie son nostre cure : e quando 
II vergognoso errore 
A scoprir s'incomincia, allor si muore. 



Apre Tuomo infelicc, allor che nasce 
In questa vita di miserie piena 
Pria che al sol gli occhi al pianto, e nato appena ; 
Va prigionier fra le tenaci fasce. 



10(5 RELIGIO POET.E. 



Fanciullo poi che non piu latte il pasce 
Sotto rigida sferza i giorni niena : 
Indi in eta piu ferma, e piu serena* 
Tra fortuna ed amor move, e rinasce 

Quante poscia sostien tristo e mendico 
Fatiche, e morti infinche curvo e lasso 
Appoggia a debil legno il fianco antico ! 

Chiude alfin le sue spoglie a? gusto sasso 
Ratto cosi che sospirando io dico : 
Delia culla alia tomba e un breve passo. 



VII. 



Of the merits of the sonnet as a form of poetic 
composition, I desire to say a few words. And first as 
to that iorm formally. It consists of fourteen lines ; 
that is to say of eight and of six. The eight are four 
taken twice, and the six three taken twice. Thus we 
obtain that variety in uniformity, which is a principle 
in all arts, and in the present instance resembles some- 
what the major and minor in music. Of the diversity 
in the disposition and combination of the rhymes 
there is so much to be said, that I will pass over this 
topic with the remark, that two are strictly allowed to 
the eight lines, and two or three to the six. A perfect 



BASIS OF THE POEM. 107 



sonnet should be limited to the expression of a single 
thought, which itself should be divided and subdivided 
to adapt it to the four parts of which the poem is com- 
posed. Thus the thought is not completely rendered 
till the last line, or even the last word has been 
reached. 

While some have attributed to a faultless sonnet the 
very highest excellence, others seem to speak of this 
species of composition as little better than trifling non- 
sense. The reason of this probably may be that it is 
a form of poetry as admirable as difficult ; and a per- 
fect sonnet, both as to metric construction and the 
idea embodied in the lines would be a production of 
rare beauty. But it is to be doubted if such a thing 
exist. The beauties of the poem tempt many to try 
their skill in this way : the difficulties which are to be 
vanquished produce innumerable failures. The im- 
mense number of frivolous sonnets thus arising has, 
doubtless, occasioned some prejudice against the very 
name. A little thing of price is usually of the greater 
price, as a diamond or a pearl ) but a little thing 
valueless is doubly insignificant. 

But on the other hand many poets of great emi- 
nence have left the choice and prime of their thoughts, 
when isolated and distinct, in this form. Petrarch has 
associated the idea in the minds of many with that of 



108 RELIGIO POET^E. 



love. This has not moved me, in the present collection , 
to devote more than a single sonnet to this subject, 
which, however, forms so important an element in the 
joys and sorrows of human life. It is founded upon a 
romantic story related, if my recollections are not erro- 
neous, somewhere in the Greek Anthology ; but what- 
ever its origin, the legends of every land contain simi- 
lar histories which have more than once served as a 
theme for verse, or as a pathetic incident in fictitious 
narrative. 

As an exercise in the art of poetry the sonnet is of 
considerable value; nor is it of slight importance in 
the discipline of the mind, as capable of improvement 
in the condensation and evolution of moral contempla- 
tion. For it both fixes the eye of the soul steadfastly 
upon one theme for a marked and measurable time, 
and tends to expand its field of view by the awakening 
of the meditative powers that suggests new ideas and 
invigorates the invention. It is moreover, an excellent 
thing to remember a good sonnet, and comparatively 
easy. The muses are the daughters of memory in the 
old mythology. The two sonnets which here follow 
are also translated in my collection : 



BASIS OF THE POEM. 109 



Le tre sorte di orologi additauo la morte. 

Ombre, ruote, ed arene a passi lenti, 
Atre, dure, minacci il di togliete ; 
In linee, in ferri, in atonii cadenti, 
I moti, i corsi, i precipizj avete ; 

Ombre letali, al viver mio nascenti, 
Ruote crudeli, che l'eta struggete, 
Arene gravi a'miseri viventi, 
La pena, il cruccio, e il peso mio voi siete. 

Triplice morte, occulta, edace, e trita. 
Che presta ogn'ora, manifesta e ingorda, 
Lacci, stragi, perigli alia mia vita. 

Qui m'intiina Torrore un' ombra sorda, 
Cieca la ruota il mio passaggio addita : 
E poca polve il mio morir ricorda. 



Chi non pud che vuol quel che pud veglia, 
Che quel che non si puo folle e volere ; 
Adunque saggio l'uom e da tenere 
Che da quel che non puo suo voler toglia. 

Pero che ogni diletto nostro, e doglia 
Sta in si e no saper, voler potere j 
Adunque quel sol puo, che col dovere 
Ne trae la ragion fuor di sua foglia, 

Ne sempre da voler quel che Tuom puote \ 
Spesso par dolce quel che torn a amaro : 
Piansi gia quel ch'io volsi poi ch'io l'ebbi, 

Adunque tu lettor di queste note 

S'a te vuoi esser buono e a°li altri caro, 
Vogli sempre poter quel che tu debbi. 



110 RELIGIO POETJE. 



VIII. 



There are, it must be confessed, certain principles 
in nature and laws impressed upon the parts of crea- 
tion by the great Designer of the whole system, which, 
be they few or many, are inherent in every atom that 
exists, every change that is accomplished, every act 
that is performed, and which we discover, from time 
to time, in the order, beauty and symmetry of things 
without, no less than in the immaterial essence within 
us. This subject is vast. I do but hint at it here to 
direct the attentive reader to those of the sonnets in 
which it forms the theme. 



Ite ipsi in vestrse penetralia mentis et intus 
Incisos apices, and scripta volumina mentis 
Inspicite, et genitam vobiscum agnoscite legem. 



Ergo omnes una in vita cum lege creati 
Yenimus, et fibris gerimus quee condita libris. 

They are intended to suggest, not to exhaust thought; 
they a:e, for the most part, of things which are always 
new and always old : old, for they date from time im- 
memorial; new, for till experience brings them home 
to each one of us, we never know them. 



BASIS OF THE POEM. Ill 



Thus the great problem of the existence of evil : — 
the dignity of patience and silence, whether under the 
assaults of fortune or those which are directed against 
us by the malice or enmity of others : — 



Many are the sayings of the wise, 

In ancient and in modern books enroll'd, 

Extolling patience as the truest fortitude. 



The extraordinary condition of the human mind, and 
that inexplicable knot of contradiction, by which, see- 
ing the prosperity and triumph of injustice and guilt 
in this world, in all time and in every land, together 
with the persecution and low estate of virtue and 
integrity, so that more than one, perplexed, at his wit's 
end, quite beside himself, exclaims in dying, " virtue 
thou art but a name/' and thus, 

Virtu cosi per nimica si fuga, 

we nevertheless retain the firm conviction that it is not 
so; that whatever our experience may be, the reward 
and the honour are for virtue alone; that whatever 
conflicts with this is not reality but delusion. — The 
no less remarkable analogies between the system of 



112 RELIGIO POETiE. 



nature and religion, which have afforded the materials 
for that ingenious and profound argument which Butler 
has so well urged upon the consideration of the doubt- 
ing and the careless : — the movable image, time, of 
immovable eternity, graven as with a signet upon the 
soul : — 

image mobile 
De Timmobile eternite. 



The stern and inflexible law of duty in which is 
latent so much power, that if men were properly aware 
of it, they would submit their most cherished schemes 
and desires to its direction : — the sustaining energy of 
faith, hope, and a trust in providence, guarded by a 
consciousness of the soul's divine origin. These themes 
are presented to the minds of those whose thoughts are 
most willingly inclined to meditation, and, from general 
hints, are matured to follow out, to their issue and con- 
sequences, the trains of reflection that may thence 
arise and commend themselves to their understanding. 
Thus, should their disposition prompt, they may, from 
their own acquirements and the action of their own 
minds, derive the means to adorn and enrich, to a value 
far greater than they now, in their present form, seem 
to bear, the subjects treated, and so perceive what 
admirable poetry lies in them, even though here it be 



BASIS OF THE POEM. llo 



not brought out as it might be. For it is not to be sup- 
posed; that any part of them is alien to the vocation of 
the poet. In the discipline and exercises of the athlete, 
there are many things of which there is no visible sign 
to the eye of the spectator gazing upon the combat. 
And if eloquence is a virtue, as Cicero says it is, poe- 
try may be regarded as a certain religion, of which the 
poet is the priest. Milton and Dante were theolo- 
gians, and so was Homer too, as to the creed of his 
time. 

The concluding sonnet is from a Hebrew original, of 
which the following may be acceptable as a more literal 
rendering: : 



c 



Se 'nterpretata val come si dice. 



" We adore the Lord of the universe, who reigned 
before everything that is formed was created. At the 
time that all was finished, according to his pleasure, 
then was his name proclaimed King. And after all 
things shall have finished to exist, he alone will reign 
tremendous. For he ever was, is now, and will eter- 
nally exist in glory. And he is One, nor is there a 
second to be compared or associated with him. He is 
without beginning and without an end, and to him 
alone appertain power and dominion. He is my God, 
and my living Eedeeiner, and the Rock of my portion 
on the day of distress. He is also my Standard, and 



114 RELIGIO PGETJE. 



my refuge, the portion of my cup when I call. Into 
his hands do I commit my spirit when I fall asleep, 
and when I awake; and with my spirit my body also, 
for the Lord is with me, and I will not fear." 



IX. 



Quanto per inente, o per occhio si gira 
Con tanto orcline fe, eh'esser non puote 
Senza gustar di lui, chi cio rimira. 

Leva dunque, Lettore, — 
Meco la vista, — 

E li commincia a vaggheggiar nell' arte 
i i quel maestro. 



The story of the woman of Samaria, as it is given 
in the New Testament, is remaikable, apart from its 
religious aspect, as a perfect specimen of narrative. 
It exhibits a surprising conformity with the most rigor- 
ous rules of art. And this deserves notice; for if it 
were the production of an uninspired writer, it might 
be attributed to chance, a supposition altogether inad- 
missible as the case stands. Now these rules, whether 
of rhetoric or poetic, are supposed b} r not a few to have 
been simply the invention of critical caprice, and to 
stand upon no other foundaticn than the arrogance of 



BASIS OF THE POEM. Ile5 



human authority. An examination of this narrative, 
however, will discover so close an adherence to all their 
exactions and requisitions, as far as they can apply to 
the circumstances, that it could not be more so if it 
were written solely with the design of illustrating and 
exemplifying them. It cannot be that the sacred 
writer did so proceed. Nevertheless here we find a 
whole, complete in itself, with a beginning, middle and 
end, all its parts justly compacted together. Here 
are even the unities of time, place and action. The 
gradual progress of what, on another occasion, might 
be called the fable, that is to say, of course, the con- 
texture of events, is beyond the reach of all human 
genius in its perfection. Here are characters, national 
and personal, manners, morals, incidents, all brought in 
with exact regularity in a narrow compass. And there 
is something so sublime in the climax, so noble in its 
very simplicity of grandeur, that when it is considered 
as arising from what precedes, and in connexion with 
all the parts, we find in it, shining like the sun, the 
clear li&'ht of an internal evidence of revelation: 



o j 



Onde rifulge a noi Dio giudicante. 



This being so, may not the inference be drawn that 
these conditions of narrative are but derivations from 



Ill) RELIGIO POETjE. 



unalterable and essential laws? There must be, be- 
yond a doubt, something in those rules, as we call 
them — those necessary elements of poetry — which is 
only a more refined derivation from the same laws; 
something beyond us, and that is not submitted to our 
decision. Why it is, or how, we cannot say, unless by 
admitting the divine original of poetry, so apparent in 
Scripture, that it forces its way and penetrates the veil 
of translation, causing almost the versification and 
cadence to be visible with a little attention. The laws 
of this art, and the principles upon which it is founded, 
do not date from Homer or Aristotle; they are not 
inventions of skill, but discoveries of experience: they 
were before they were known, or even applied and 
exemplified by the earliest chants of the oldest nations. 
For it may be said that the true poet, alone of all men, 
is a being with a faculty of living at the same time in 
two worlds, the world of transitory things and the 
world of things eternal. In his finest raptures, he 
flashes upon the mind of his auditor a sudden illumi- 
nation, revealing the vision of his own spirit, and 
makes him to see for a time the things of that other 
world, and to live, in the harmony of both that other 
life, of which the present is but the dim shadow. The 
method of art was derived from pre-existing models, 
not the models from any method of art. What then 



BASIS OF THE POEM. 117 



was the art of those models, if not the fixed and 
immutable truth, in harmony with which the soul itself 
is moulded ? 



Qui si rimira nell'arte, ch'adorna 
Cotanto effeto, e discern esi il bene, 
Per che'l mondo di su quel di giu torna. 



But was it for the sake of art merely that the his- 
tory of the Samaritan was chosen as the subject of a 
paraphrase? Not altogether so. There were other 
reasons which rendered it peculiarly appropriate to 
form the concluding division of the poem. For it 
could not certainly be better concluded than by lead- 
ing the mind and the imagination up to those foun- 
tains, and the sources of those living waters, which to 
mortal taste bring an anticipation of immortality. 
When the undying intelligence which we possess, true 
to its celestial nature and origin, is awakened to the 
transient and perishable character of those things 
which at present satisfy the desires of each day, de- 
sires still unsatisfied, as soon as their momentary grati- 
fication has passed away, then an unquenchable thirst 
soon seems to arise, which nothing can assuage. What 
before was sufficient to us, now proves unavailing. 
We seek, without perceiving it, that well-spring which 



IIS RELIGIO POETiE. 



is not truly in Samaria, nor in any earthly region; but 
in a country which the soul alone can visit as being its 
native land and its rightful home. To have tasted of 
its waters is indeed to have tasted of life. The beauty 
of art is like that of nature, only the reflection of a 
beauty ineffable and unattainable; but which yet may 
be seen afar off, and from the contemplation of which 
there is no skill, no wisdom and no excellence asso- 
ciated with our happiness in this world, that is not 
infinitely enlarged and augmented. We begin then 
only to live, therefore, from the time that this, the true 
fountain of existence, is discovered. Then the soul 
being refreshed, the intellect is inspired with a new 
energy; the drooping and wearied powers, reanimated 
by the influence thus gained, are capable of better 
things than the idle toils of the past, and the end of 
being known, we begin really to be; having before 
only dreamed. 

The whole frame-work of the narrative is so devel- 
oped that without departing in any great degree from 
the written word, it has been found possible to exhibit 
at one view, and in the very language of Scripture, an 
outline of the general scheme of Christianity. But 
this word, the initiative and entrance to a much more 
elevated subject, reminds me that my task is now com- 
pleted, and that it is time to take my leave of the 



BASIS OF THE POEM. 119 



reader, which I do with the hope that the many faults 
of the performance will be overlooked, or lost in the 
importance of the theme and the difficulty of the 
undertaking. 



Or ti riman, Let tor, sovra '1 tuo banco, 
Dietro pensando a cio, che si preliba, 
S' esser vuoi lieto assai prima, che stanco. 

Messo t'ho inanzi: omai per te ti ciba: 
Che a se ritorce tutta la mia cut a 
Quella materia, ond'io son fatto scriba. 



Tratto t'ho qui con ingegno e con arte: 
Lo tuo piacere omai prendi per duce : 
Fuor se' dell' erte vie, fuor se' dell' arte, 

Vedi il sole, che'n fronte ti riluce : 
Yedi Terbetta, i fiori, e gli arbucelli, 
Che quella terra sol da se produce. 



Non aspettar mio dir piu. ne mio cenno; 
Libero, dritto e sano e tuo arbitrio, 
E fallo fora non fare a suo sen no : 

Perch' io te sopra te corono e mitrio. 



THE END. 



• 



W-ti 



^ 



o 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
f 724^779-2111 



